Mister Mazur
by uncomplicatedButterFLY
Summary: Professional. Punctual. Proud... Pathetic? Being successful is one thing, happiness is a whole other concept.


**Mister Mazur**

At exactly 5:25 every morning, Ibrahim Mazur awoke to the sound of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata _playing from his in-house stereo system. For precisely 5 minutes – no more, no less – he would lay in his bed absorbing the music until finally getting up. By 6:15 he was showered, shaved and dressed. At 6:30, his coffee – always black, no cream and most certainly no sugar – would have made its way into his favourite plain white mug, ready for consumption. He would then spend the next half hour reading the front page of the only newspaper he thought worthy of his time. By 7:00 he was walking out of his foyer and into the penthouses' private elevator. And finally at 7:30, his personal assistant, Janine, would greet him with a 'Good Morning, Mr. Mazur' as he made his way through the wide expanse that was the offices of _Mazur & Jacobs. _

It was suffice to say that Mister Mazur was a man of order and punctuality in both his personal and professional life. After all, _Mazur & Jacobs _did not become one of the country's leading law firms through disorganization and tardiness. Ibrahim Mazur ruled his workplace with an iron fist, demanding nothing but the best preparation and performance from all of his employees – not even the janitor was free from his totalitarian rule. The path to success was not one made of ease and comfort but instead hardship and determination – a message that Mister Mazur made sure to communicate to all of his employees and colleagues. This being so, he accepted no excuse for slacking off – having only ever missed 1 day of work in the last decade.

At precisely 7:30 every evening, exactly 12 hours since his arrival at the office – a period of time in which he would have had at least 8 hours worth of meetings while consuming countless cups of coffees courtesy of Janine – Ibrahim Mazur would put away whatever files he'd been working on, lock up and bid adieu for the night. By 8:00 he was in his penthouse elevator once again, counting the seconds before the doors opened and he was home. At 8:15, after he'd had sufficient time to change from his stiff work attire and into his more comfortable home clothes, Ms. Jones, the housekeeper, would set his dinner in the large dining room before leaving to make her own way home.

Where his colleagues had loving wives, husbands and children to greet them after a hard day's work, Mister Mazur had a glass of scotch and an impeccable meal cooked by a near stranger. Unlike his career, Ibrahim Mazur's personal life had never quite taken off – not being one to seek out friendship or any other sort of personal attachments. Though it was true that he'd had his fair of share women, he was simply incapable of settling down. His career had always taken first place and was a widely accepted fact among the women he'd been with – a fact that inspired pride rather than sadness in Mister Mazur. His success in his professional life more than satisfied the rare and fleeting moments of doubt he'd had. It was safe to say that Ibrahim Mazur was a far happier man alone than in the company of others.

Several weeks after Mister Mazur's return from a business trip, a stunning red head was spotted by his neighbors walking out of the penthouse elevator. They'd been thoroughly surprised to see someone other than Mister Mazur or Ms. Jones using the thing. No one had seen the beautiful woman arrive. They'd just seen her leave. They were equally surprised to see her again on subsequent days. Some saw her come, in a cab, others saw her leave on several occasions and walk down the street. She never stayed the night. They knew that much.

After a while, a schedule of sorts had been formed. The woman arrived no earlier than 9 most evenings and left no later than after the stroke of midnight. She was never seen on Sundays or Wednesdays and only occasionally on Fridays. She seldom made eye-contact with Mister Mazur's kind, albeit nosy, neighbors and always made sure to spend only the barest amount of time in their presence. Only once had they ever heard her speak and even then it was a hushed whisper into her phone_: "Yes, this is Janine speaking."_

48 days after the first sighting of the beautiful woman, she was again seen arriving by cab. As usual she'd made her way up to the executive penthouse as fast as possible. However this time, within a matter of minutes, neighbors from the floor below were able to hear faint sounds of yelling and screaming, glass breaking and thumping sounds, like things being thrown... And then, it was quiet.

A while later, the woman left the building, walked to the corner, caught a cab and was gone.

_I guess the Honeymoon's over,_ thought Mr. Jenks – an old gentleman living directly below Ibrahim Mazur's apartment. The rest of the night passed by uneventfully, no more sounds were heard from the top floor and Mister Mazur's neighbors once again returned to minding their own business.

At 7:05 the next morning, Mister Mazur was not seen walking out of the penthouse elevators like usual. At 8:05, there was still no indication that he'd left the building at all. In the 7 years since Ibrahim Mazur had moved into the building's penthouse, his neighbors had definitely taken notice of his meticulous schedule even going so far as to keep a record of the number of days he'd missed work. When at 8:00 that evening, the time when Mister Mazur should have been making his way home, he had yet to make an appearance; his neighbors saw it as a beacon flashing like a neon sign that said 'Something's Wrong!'

At 9 o'clock one of the neighbors called the police.

They found the inside of the penthouse a shambles. His body lay on the floor, unmarked but for the dent in the top of his head where the base of the ashtray had broken a hole in his skull.

The ashtray was for "Boss of the Year". It lay on the floor next to his body. Next to that lay a picture of him, looking rather sheepish, with a paper crown on his head and a bouquet of flowers on his arm, standing under a banner which read, "Man Most In Need Of A Change In Life."

"Maybe not", thought the detective, "maybe not."


End file.
